DotMoms

My big boy

By Charlene

We watched Nolan playing in the sandbox at the park over the weekend. He was intrigued by what some other kids were doing: They were creating a hole in the sand and filling it with water, dubbing it "Egypt."

The group consisted of about three boys and one girl. The boys ranged in age from 3 to 5 years old. The girl was about 4 years old.

They let Nolan help when he grabbed his bucket, filled it with water and trekked back to the sandbox to fill the hole with water. While the little girl was filling her bucket with water, Nolan was standing behind her waiting for his turn at the faucet. We could see they were chatting and it seemed so cute. But then Nolan walked over to us.

"Mommy, that girl said I'm a baby."

"Are you a baby, Nolan?" I said.

"No, mommy, I'm a big boy."

"Well okay then. Don't worry about it."

Nolan, in his three and a half years of ego, walked over to the girl and stood behind her again.

"I'm not a baby. I’m a big boy," he told her.

And she proceeded to razz him.

She went on to build "Egypt" with the other kids, and so did Nolan. He continued to tell the other kids he was a big boy. And I, watching from the sides, didn't know whether to smile or cry. I wanted to pick him up and sweep him in my arms and give him Mom kisses and hugs. But I knew I couldn't. I was proud of him for not running away from the "big kids."

Nolan's feelings were definitely hurt. I could tell by the tone in his voice and the way he was acting. And the fact that he repeated the story about 10 times that afternoon. The girl at the park was only a year older than him, but she was old enough to know how to hurt his feelings with words and old enough to know better.

Hey, babe...

By Charlene

As I was preparing dinner one evening, Nolan came into the kitchen from the backyard.

"Hey Nolie, can you do me a favor?" I said, ready to ask him to bring something out to his dad, who was preparing the grill.

"What, babe?" he replied with his voice in a sweet tone as he walked over to me and grabbed my hand. "Tell me, babe."

I smiled at him in a stunned silence… Did he just say what I think he said?

"Whaaaat is it, babe?" he said again, tugging at my hand and stressing the "a" in "what." "Babe, tell me!"

And I was rendered speechless again. Nine months pregnant and completely hormonal, I'm amazed I didn't break down in happy, mom tears.

I bent down, placed my hands around his wide-eyed little face and plopped a big fat kiss on his forehead, nose and cheeks. I asked my favor to which he answered, "Sure babe," and quickly went on to complete his task.

I continued about my business in the kitchen, only with a bigger, brighter smile on my face, wondering how and why "babe" had become his newest, most favorite term of endearment.

And then my husband walked into the kitchen.

"Hey babe…" he said, and went on to ask me a question.

Ahhhhh. The lightbulb went on. That's what Nolan hears his dad call me.

Nolan continues to use "babe," but he seems to save it for certain moments. Like when he hears exasperation in my voice. Or senses I'm flustered or tired. Or need to smile. He must have picked that up from his dad, too.

What does your child call you that makes you melt?

Inheriting traits

By Charlene

Lately I've become fascinated with watching Nolan and taking notice of traits he's inherited from either me or my husband, Jeff. I'm not sure why this fascinates me. Perhaps it's because as he develops his own personality and independence, I need the comfort of knowing that a few things about him are just inherent to his being because he comes from us.

Nolan scratches his hair when he's thinking, just like his Dad does. He is a constant negotiator. If we say he can have 2 cookies he tries to get five. If we say books after bath time, he says "First books, and then bath time." He asks "Why?" incessantly. These are all traits that cause my in-laws to laugh each time they witness them, noting it's payback for all the times that my husband asked question upon question or negotiated with them.

Nolan eats cookies the way I do. He breaks them apart and dunks each piece into milk. He has to have his room a certain way at bedtime. He likes to cuddle. Just like me.  I recently watched him sing "The Muffin Man" while he was walking in circles across the backyard and could vividly remember myself, at about five years old, in my parent's backyard singing and walking around just like Nolan. 

Jeff and I both have tempers. We're both headstrong and feisty and worse yet, mine has Latin orgins, which just spells trouble. Nolan? He has inherited a double dose. 

Sometimes we'll say to Nolan, "Ddid you know when mommy/daddy was little, he/she used to do that just like you?" A smile gleams across his face and he wants to hear more.

Like mom and dad, maybe he, too, needs to know he's carrying a piece of us with him.  Not something he learned. Something that just "is."

Momma's boy

By Charlene

Nolan crawled into our bed as he does every morning. He ran through his routine dialogue.

"Momma, Daddy, is it light outside? It IS light outside! Time to wake up!"

"Momma, Daddy, is today a school day?"

On this particular morning, it was a school day, only we were breaking from routine. Instead of me dropping Nolan off at school as I usually do on my way to work, Daddy would be taking him. I was staying home to catch some extra sleep after a long night battling my eight-months pregnant belly.

Nolan whined.

"No, Momma, I want YOU to take me to school. Not Daddy."

"Why?" we both asked.

"Because Momma always takes me to school. I want Momma."

My husband snickered as Nolan scooted over to my side of the bed, announcing he wanted to cuddle with me.

"He is such a 'momma's boy.' Look at him –- he's practically trying to get back into your belly!" Jeff laughed, half joking, half serious.

Nolan knows he's going to be a big brother soon, and we can already see him getting a little more clingy as my due date approaches and we ready our house for the baby.

"How much do you love Momma?" I asked Nolan.

"Five!" he said. He's learning about numbers at school and is always eager to show his stuff.

"How much do you love Daddy?" I asked, expecting him to respond with the same value.

"Four!" he said. And my husband and I laughed until our bellies hurt.

Secretly, I smiled to myself. I know that Nolan's attachment to me will fade as his world expands. I can easily fast forward my brain to his teen years when he'll cringe if I brush his bangs away from his eyes. I'll have to order him to kiss me goodbye when he leaves the house. Long gone will be the days where he'll come over to me, as he does now, ask me to kneel down and tell me he is going to whisper in my ear: "Momma, I love you."

As parents, all of us always hear: Time goes by so fast; Your kids will be off to college before you know it.

I quickly learned that this is true, so I'll take my five-star rating and hold onto "momma's boy" for as long he lets me.

Rookie moves

By Charlene

My husband and I are avid baseball fans. I've come to learn that being a first-time parent is much like moving back and forth between the minors and the Big Leagues. Just when I feel like I'm worthy of playing in the Big Leagues, I commit what my husband and I have dubbed a parenting "rookie move." And back to the minors I go.

When Nolan was about a week old we made our first rookie move. We dropped the ball at home plate as the opposing team's winning run was sliding in. We changed our newborn on our bed… without a changing pad underneath. It was as if someone were using our bedroom to film the video "What not to do when you bring your baby home." We pulled his diaper off and didn't even put a fresh one underneath the old one. His cute bare butt (or what you could make of it – he was barely six pounds) was on our comfortable chambray comforter. And as if on cue, Nolan let out a big poop.  We, of course, were highly entertained and laughed because it was about 1 a.m. and we were sleep deprived, and thought this was probably a common first time mistake. But poop stains, and we were reminded of our error every time we made the bed. A rookie move never to be committed again.

Fast forward three years. I'm feeling a little more comfortable in my parenting skills. I'm feeling worthy of the Big Leagues, waiting for "the call."

Until a few days ago.

I came home with Nolan after a day at work and picking him up at preschool. I proceeded to go to my bedroom to change clothes. He stayed in the kitchen. It got awfully quiet, which is not completely abnormal since Nolan likes to read his books at the kitchen table. So I didn't panic.

When I got to the kitchen, I found Nolan had climbed on the counter, opened a cabinet and was pouring red, blue, green and yellow food coloring all over his feet, hands and face. It hit the counters and the hardwood floor. When I asked him what he was doing, he said "Momma, I'm a leopard!" He was referring to one of his favorite books, "How the Leopard Got Its Spots," by Justine Fontes. One leopard paints spots on herself.

Rookie move committed? Leaving food coloring within easy reach and letting my son see me place said food coloring in a reachable location. (Nolan saw me put it the cabinet days ago and had asked me about it. I should have known he was plotting to use it in some interesting fashion.)

I cleaned up my little leopard and the kitchen, we had a little chat about his naughtiness, and we both learned our lesson. I knew if he found the food coloring again he'd probably do the same thing. But Nolan won't find it. It's well hidden, at least I think it is.

I will be relinquishing my "first-time parent" status in a couple of months when baby number two arrives. I'll have moved up from the minors, but to a completely different league. A league with a whole new set of rookie moves. Maybe there's a Spring Training for parents? 

What parenting rookie moves have you committed? And how do you get food coloring off a hardwood floor???

And for today's craving...

By Charlene

Pregnancy cravings are rarely healthy ones. During my first pregnancy, I never really craved one specific food. But if you mentioned something to me, banana pancakes for example, I'd have to make that dish, whether it was for breakfast, lunch or dinner. Or an afternoon snack. Or a midnight treat.

This time around, food cravings are part of my every day existence. First, it was sweet potatoes, which sounds perfectly healthy… until you watch how I prepare them: roasted with gobs of butter, handfuls of marshmallows and oodles of brown sugar.

Next up? Whole Food's Cookies 'n Cream ice cream. Also seemingly on the up and up. Unless you manage to go through a half-gallon in three days. This ice cream does not contain little specks of cookie here or there. We're talking entire pieces of Oreos, my friends.

I currently have two items on the cravings menu: Nestle's Toll House Cookiesm, first, and the second, I'm almost ashamed to admit, is Hawaiian Punch.

I have three Toll House cookies every night; those ready-made packs are just too convenient. I try to balance it out with a glass of milk -- at least that provides some nutritional value by contributing to my calcium intake. 

I have my brother-in-law to thank for my Hawaiian Punch addiction. Every time I visit him and my sister-in-law, they always have a bottle of Hawaiian Punch in the refrigerator. And I always have to have a glass of it. But now that I'm pregnant, an occasional glass just isn't enough. We have a bottle in our own refrigerator. As my husband says, "It's so bad it's good."

I am eating healthy otherwise and my weight gain is normal. I have my share of greens, fruit, protein, and all the other various "proper" items that a pregnant gal should try to eat on a daily basis.

But the cravings persist. And fortunately, I will continue to take advantage of every opportunity to indulge.

What are/were your pregnancy food cravings?

Healing powers

By Charlene

About 10 years ago, I returned from a trip to El Salvador after attending my grandmother’s funeral services. My mom stayed behind an extra week to spend some time with her siblings. During that week she was away, I was scheduled to have my wisdom teeth extracted. I was still living at home, and my Dad would have to be my nurse during my recovery.

The wisdom teeth were removed and my dad was so sweet taking care of me, ensuring his 23-year-old "little girl" was comfortable and happy. Everything was fine until about four days after the surgery. My jaw bone ached with a pain that I had never experienced. Nothing -- not even Vicadin -- could make that pain go away.

And all I could do was wish for my mom. She was arriving that night from her trip. I so vividly remember lying in my bed in the dark, holding a compress to my face, praying the pain would go away. Waiting for her to come home. I don't know what I expected her to be able to do to fix the pain. I just knew she could.

I remember hearing the car drive up. The front door opening. My dad must have filled her in on my agony because as soon as she stepped foot in the house she walked straight into my room and directly to my bed.

"Que pasa, mi hija," she said as she ran her fingers through my hair. "What's wrong, my daughter?"

As I told her about my jaw, I suddenly realized the pain had vanished. It was gone. It was as if she literally had some sort of magical healing power. I was awestruck and I hugged her so tight I felt like I was five years old.

Last week I was home sick with a severe case of bronchitis, a sinus infection and other cold-related "stuff." All compounded by asthma. And even further compounded by my six-months pregnant self. I was a true vision.

By the end of the week I was feeling better and almost up to taking care of Nolan by myself. Something in me made me call my mom and ask her to come over. I called her at 7 a.m. and she arrived a few hours later with a smile on her face, ready to care for her daughter and grandson. She didn't make my woes go away this time; I think her mystery powers end at bacterial infections. But I did feel better, more energized, just by her being around.

When Nolan has an ouchie and calls for Mommy, I have a new understanding and respect for comforting him. I can only hope that I have inherited the same magical touch that graces my mother, and that Nolan and the baby growing in my belly can feel it as I do.

And if you’d ask my mom about this, she'll tell you exactly where her mystical power stems.

"Es la fuerza de ser una Mamá," she'd say. 

It's the power of being a Mom.

"My little baby's all growed up"

By Charlene

I kicked off the year with two goals, both related to my son Nolan and the baby growing in my belly. Well, let's face it. They related to ridding Nolan of two things that would make life easier once the baby is born. Let's call it the "Bye Bye Diapers and Pacifier" campaign. Hubby and I thought each task would be more difficult than putting clear thread though the most minuscule needle hole.

First, the Pacifier. We expected tearful bedtimes of Nolan begging for his beloved "Bop," his nickname for the pacifier. We started talking to him about a magical "Bop  Fairy," who needed Bops for new babies and would leave little presents for the big boys that gave up their pacifiers. He started picking out what he wanted from the Fairy. When we asked if he was ready to give the Bops to the Fairy, he'd say no. Okie dokie. This was going to take a while.

And the diapers. A bit of an easier transition, we thought to ourselves. Nolan was using the potty for months at school but he refused to go at home. A control freak, just like his folks! So we bought the necessary :Big Boy" underwear and big guns they were. How could he resist wearing Bob the Builder or Thomas the Tank Engine on his little rump? But he wore them once or twice and still wouldn't use the bathroom at home. Another battle.

And then Nolan proved us wrong.

Last Sunday, Nolan didn't ask for his pacifier. At all. It was as if it never existed. It's been one week and he's only mentioned the word "Bop" twice: once when he fell down and hit his head and the other after a very long time-out for firing a toothbrush across a check stand at the grocery store (another story all together!). And each time he asked for his pacifier, a simple "we don't have one" and a cuddle was all he needed to move on.

As for the diapers? Gone. We put him in his underwear one day, put him on the potty consistently all day and that night he announced he didn't want to wear diapers anymore. Not even at bedtime.

I can't say it's been easy. As he's given up two things, he's reverted to two habits from a year ago: hitting and shouting.

It's sort of entertaining. Just this weekend he gave me a good tap on the leg and when I asked him why he hit me, he said, "Because Mommy said, 'No.'" Okie Dokie. By the way, if any of you have tips on how to deal with this let me know.

This whole experience has also taught me something about my son. He will do things when HE is ready. Not when I am ready. I think back to when he stopped nursing. He absolutely loved nursing and I remember thinking, "How will I ever get my boobs back?!" Then one day, at nine months, he just stopped. He wanted no part of nursing. And my worries were unnecessary.

My little guy is growing up. Consistent with what every parent tells me, it's going by so fast. Too fast.

On one end I am trying to speed up the process by helping him transition to being a Big Boy. On the other end, I just want to hold him in my arms. And never let go.

Sleeping through the new year

By Charlene

During our 2003 New Year's Eve celebration, which consisted of six adults, a delightful dinner with as many bottles of wine, little Nolan awoke from his slumber at 2 a.m. to join us. Chipper as can be, he sat at the table sporting a party hat and smile from ear to ear saying "Happy New Year!"

It was a sweet moment that made our night, er, early morning. And it was a stark contrast to our most recent New Year's Eve.

Nolan came down with a cold... the scratchiest, dryest cough I've heard. We started calling him Mocho (pronounced Mo-co) -- boogers in Spanish -- because he was so, shall we say, productive in the nasal area.

Our dinner guests (another couple) arrived at 8 p.m. And Nolan had already been asleep for an hour.

Our friends and my hubby proceeded to get quite jovial from the many, merry drinks on hand. I, in my very pregnant and sober state, was incredibly entertained by their antics. They were loud, belligerent, hysterical, dancing fools.

Nolan, tired and worn from a day spent hacking 'til his throat was raw, slept through the whole event. And I missed him. I was really hoping he'd make an appearance because, after all, what better way to start a new year than to see your child's smile.

But Nolan got his sweet revenge. He woke up at 5:30 a.m. on New Year's Day. He was still sick, but his solid night of sleep provided some serious energy. And the rest of the house woke up shortly thereafter, with hangovers in hand, and Nolan spinning circles aroung them. And I, again, in my very pregnant and sober state, was even further entertained. 

Nolan may not have joined us in the wee early morning hours, but he sure made up for it.

When parents don't listen...

By Charlene

Nolan's 3rd birthday is days away. We held his birthday party on the 12th since most of us can use the weekend before Christmas to finish our last-minute shopping.

In the weeks preceding his birthday party, my mom called me to ask if it would be okay to buy Nolan a tricycle. They take care of Nolan once a week and on their visits to the park, he happens to be really fond of a playmate's tricycle.

Okay, good step for mom to ask me what I think. I told her that we were planning on buying Nol a bicycle for Christmas from Santa. "Please DO NOT get him a tricycle," I said. I further explained why we were not getting a tricycle and that we had the bike all picked out.

You can see where this is going, can't you?

Come Nolan's birthday, my parents arrive delighted that they have a surprise for him. When I press my mom for insight into the gift, she scrunched up her eyes and smiled, saying, "It's really beautiful. Nolan will love it." But she wouldn't tell me WHAT it was. And finally she said it was a tricycle.

I proceeded to ask her why and how they could completely disregard my request. "I forgot," she said. Nice one. And my dad? His curt reply was "he needs to start on a tricycle."

I had every right to make them take the tricycle back. But it was too late. Nolan had seen it. He was thrilled, as were my parents.

And me? Livid. Still. One week later.

I'm struggling with how to make my parents really, truly understand that they need to open their listening ears and respect our decisions. Not only were they disrespectful, but I feel like they took something away from me. Hubby and I were so excited to see Nolan wake up Christmas day with a shiny blue bike in front of the fireplace from Santa. I know he'll be excited with whatever he receives from Santa, but it's the principle of the matter.

How do you handle your own parents when they won't listen to you or respect your decisions?